


Small Things

by Flyting



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Brief mentions of depression/suicide, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Old Married Couple, Older Characters, So Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyting/pseuds/Flyting
Summary: "You like looking at me."Older!Kylo/Hux domestic fluff. Set in the same universe as Argentina, but you don't need to have read it to get cavities from this. If Argentina had a happy ending, this would be its epilogue.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic and [Argentina](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7226677/chapters/16403071) are both set twenty years after TFA, when Kylo and Hux meet while both in hiding from the Republic.

 "You like looking at me,” Ren says after the fourth time he catches Hux subtly checking out his ass. They are crammed together in Hux’s narrow kitchen ( _their_ narrow kitchen, he cannot bring himself to think, not quite yet, even though they’ve been living together for nearly a year now) cooking dinner. Well, Hux is cooking. Ren is content to follow his directions, which largely consist of ‘don’t touch that’, and ‘chop these’, and ‘hand me that- no, not that one the other one’, and drink wine. As far as evenings go, he’s had worse.  
  
“What?” Hux asks, pretending that he is too distracted to have heard correctly.  
  
“You like the way I look,” he repeats. “You’re always looking at me when you think I can’t see you.”

Stars knew _why_. He can just about say without embarrassment that he was sort of handsome once, when he was younger and stronger and less ragged around the edges, but what Hux sees now that’s worth staring at is a mystery to him. Graying hair and old scars; a lanky, unshaven collection of poor life choices marinated in alcohol. To top it all off, he still needs a haircut.

And yet.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous.” It’s less of a denial and more of a general admonishment. Passing him a bundle of long, slender sweetroots, he adds, “Cut these up.”  
  
Ren reaches around him to grab the board to chop them on, because Hux gives him that _glare_ over the tops of his thin-rimmed glasses, the one Ren imagines he gives to mouthy students, when he cuts things on the countertop. For just a second, Hux is bracketed between Ren’s arms, trapped between the long length of his body and the kitchen counter. He can see the fine pale hair on the back of Hux’s neck prickle at the closeness, at the warmth of his breath on the little sliver of exposed skin between Hux’s shirt collar and his hairline.  
  
They had fucked here in the kitchen once, Hux bent over the counter with his pants down around his knees and Ren draped over his back. Soft words and breathy laughter, both of them a little drunk, and _fuck yes that’s- yes you feel so good in me just like that-_

It’s one of his favorite memories.

If he stacked them up, his favorite memories, he’s worried that the vast majority of them will be from this past year. There is something meaningful about that, but he doesn’t want to think of what it is.

He dices the roots up, dutifully, ease of long practice keeps the knife moving quickly under his hand as he remembers the feeling of digging urgent bruises into Hux’s pale hips. Of languid arms snaking around his waist when they were finished, and warm, contented breath against his neck. Of Hux fucked-out and sleepy, not protesting when Kylo picked him up with hands under his ass  and carried him in the other room. When he’s done with the sweetroot he passes it back to Hux, dropping the knife in the sink and snagging his half-empty wineglass off the counter.  
  
“So you won’t admit it, then?” He doesn’t normally drink wine, but he wanted something they could share, and Hux won’t drink liquor.  
  
“Admit what? That I find you attractive?” And he has to hand it to him; the words are perfectly balanced on that knife-edge between acceptance and rejection. Between scorn and gentle teasing. Just vague enough that Ren has _no fucking clue_ what they are supposed to mean.

But then, he remembers that Hux had always been good at saying what he meant without actually saying it. At making _yes Lord Ren I’d be happy to_ sound exactly like _fuck you._

He lets it drop until after dinner, biding his time. He’s learned patience, if nothing else. Hux limits himself to precisely one glass of wine while they eat, leaving Ren to polish off the rest of the bottle, tipping the dregs into his own cup. It’s a self-imposed limit. The result of too many sleepless nights trapped in dark corners of his own mind. Ren understands well enough. Being drunk made it that much easier- that much more tempting- to do what every miserable, exhausted part of your mind was saying you should have done years ago. That you were a failure, weak, old and useless.

 _I’m… I got afraid that I would actually do it,_ Hux had muttered, embarrassed by the admission. The apology in his voice filled Ren with the unfamiliar urge to hold him, to pull him close and never let him go. Like Hux was honestly _sorry_ for trying not to kill himself, if it meant he couldn’t have another drink with him. There’s something desperately needy in Hux that was never there before. He catches glimpses of it peaking out here and there and it fills him with warmth. Like this desperate humanity is something fragile which he has to protect.

When Ren has a nightmare now he wakes to soft touches, made sweetly clumsy by the dregs of sleep; hands running up and down his back or an arm winding, heavy, around his waist. _Shush,_ Hux mutters, drowsy. _Go back to sleep. It’s alright._

It’s all very… something.

“How was your book?” Hux asks in between bites. There’s not a lot for him to do while Hux is at his job. He visits with BT, does a few freelance repairs for Corlatt and Dante, and he reads.  
  
“I liked the end.”

Hux doesn’t say anything, so he goes on, “The thief turns out to be the long lost nobleman’s daughter and she stops the wedding just in time.”  
  
“And then let me guess- she marries the boy and the villains learn the error of their ways and they all live happily ever after?”

Hux has no faith in Ren’s taste in literature.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting a happy ending.”  
  
“It’s hardly realistic.”

“Exactly.” When Hux just looks at him, expectant and faintly amused, he continues, “It’s not real. That’s the point. Shit like that doesn’t happen in the real world, but that doesn’t stop anybody from wanting it. It’s … I don’t know, nice. Cathartic. You may never get it, but you can enjoy it vicariously.”  
  
“For a little while?” Hux says softly.

“For as long as you can.”

After dinner they do the washing up together before he uses the shower in Hux’s poky little refresher. Another easy routine they had slipped into slowly, without meaning to. Hux showers in the morning and Ren at night, beause Hux doesn’t wrinkle up his nose at him if he comes to bed clean, smelling like soap and the faintly medicinal shampoo Hux bought.

His hair was going thin from the eumelanin treatments that leeched all the copper out of it. Ren has scrounged together enough decency not to mention it.

They have sex like a couple of old men. Under the covers, lights out. It’s soft, familiar. Comfortable. Afterwards, lying together while the sweat cooled on their skin, legs still tangled together under the blankets, Hux murmurs into his shoulder. “Of course I like looking at you. We live together. We share a bed. You're my husband in everything but name. Should I not find you attractive?”

“I don’t _mind_. I just don’t understand it.”

But maybe he does, just a little.

“Is this your way of fishing for compliments?” He can hear the smile in his voice.

“Something like that.” Ren smiles too. “Go on, tell me I’m pretty, Hux.”

“Oh, shut up and go to sleep.”


End file.
